


Hunger

by softestpunk



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Basim is Very Basim, M/M, PWP with plot, Sigurd is Very Gay, Sigurd's actually having a lovely time, Smut, oh and they do drugs, semi-dark fic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28320306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: From the moment he stepped off his ship onto these strange shores he has been struck by beauty of all kinds, kinds he has never known before, that make his heart swell with awe.Basim is the greatest of these that he has yet seen. His mouth, his lips, his tongue, his voice, the way he carries himself, all of it has ensnared Sigurd already.Sigurd meets Basim and gets something he's always wanted but never dared ask for.
Relationships: Basim Ibn Ishaq/Sigurd Styrbjornson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry??? About all the Basim fic???? He's just so fascinating and handsome.

_Constantinople, 870CE_

Sigurd laughs as he sinks into a wealth of pillows in the welcome shaded cool of Basim’s home, sweat rolling down his back and making even his thin tunic stick to his skin.

He’d never imagined heat like this, couldn’t have imagined heat like this, and yet Basim is draped in heavy robes and barely has a hair out of place, the faintest sheen to his dark skin the only hint that the heat isn’t entirely in Sigurd’s head.

“It’s so fucking hot,” he mumbles, grateful for the respite from the relentless baking sun.

He has traded one wasteland for another, it seems.

Basim laughs, a low rumble of mirth that draws all of Sigurd’s attention.

He knows what he’s here for.

He hopes he knows what he’s here for.

From the moment he stepped off his ship onto these strange shores he has been struck by beauty of all kinds, kinds he has never known before, that make his heart swell with awe.

Basim is the greatest of these that he has yet seen. His mouth, his lips, his tongue, his voice, the way he carries himself, all of it has ensnared Sigurd already.

And he _wants_. Wants what he has always wanted but never dared ask for.

But so far from home, where no one will ever know, he wants to ask.

He wants to beg.

“You are far from home,” Basim says as though he read Sigurd’s thoughts, settling on the pillows beside him so they shift against Sigurd’s exposed skin. The edge of his tunic has ridden up, baring a strip of his belly to the cooler air, and it is glorious when the cold pillows brush against it.

“Yes,” Sigurd agrees. Far from his father, far from the weight of responsibility, free as any bird.

Free to do as he pleases, just this once.

“This must all be so strange to you,” Basim says.

“It is,” Sigurd agrees. “But I have seen so much I never thought possible.”

“There is so much more to see,” Basim says, and it sounds like a promise.

A gut deep throb of want so sharp it hurts makes Sigurd swallow thickly.

“Tell me about your home, Sigurd,” Basim asks, honey-thick voice washing over Sigurd like a half-remembered dream.

Sigurd does tell him, everything he thinks might interest a man like Basim, and Basim listens with interest in his eyes, all of his attention focused on Sigurd.

They talk and talk until the blistering sun sinks low on the horizon, and Sigurd barely notices when someone brings food, only pausing to eat when Basim offers him something so sweet and sticky it leaves him licking his fingers under the other man’s dark gaze. Another pang of _want_ hits him, and the look in Basim’s eyes tells him he is not alone, that he is not wrong about what Basim wants from him.

His belly warms in anticipation, attention focused on every movement Basim makes, on elegant fingers picking delicately at their supper, on the way his pink tongue darts out to meet every bite, on the satisfied hums he makes as he eats. Gods, but he is stunning. Unlike anyone Sigurd’s ever known before.

“Let me show you something more,” Basim says once they’ve eaten their fill, and this, Sigurd thinks, is it. Basim moves toward him and his stomach falls in a rush of certain uncertainty—he _wants_ , and it is terrifying.

But Basim stands, and moves past him, and collects an object Sigurd cannot even begin to describe except that it, too, is beautiful and delicate and strange, like everything else in this land, and he is _curious_.

“This helps open the mind,” Basim says, moving smoothly around the room, taking a lit stick from the fire someone must have set in the hearth while Sigurd’s attention had been wholly absorbed by his host.

A heady scent rises from whatever Basim has lit within the object, and Sigurd watches enrapt as Basim breathes the smoke in and then out in a long, elegant plume that hangs heavy in the air.

Then it is his turn, and the change is instant and startling, his lungs and mind expanding at the same time. Everything is brighter, louder, _more_.

Basim smiles a smile at him that makes his belly turn to roaring heat, a feeling he has had to push away for years, but not now. Now he stands before this beautiful man who looks at him with hunger in his eyes, and the offer is clear.

Perhaps he nods, perhaps he doesn’t have to.

Basim’s hand reaches for him, and Sigurd gasps as callused fingers brush over the skin of his neck, a gentle thumb rubbing circles over a mark he was born with as though it is the most interesting thing in the world. Basim looks at him like a starving man and Sigurd only hopes he is enough of a feast.

He takes in another lungful of smoke and surges forward, sealing his mouth to Sigurd’s, breathing it into Sigurd’s lungs even as he pushes him back into the pillows.

A surge of visions hits him as Basim pins him down. A wolf, a man he thinks of as a brother but cannot name, a tree, an abyss, Eivor by his side, a raven swooping for him.

They are gone in an instant, but Basim is still there, and Sigurd grabs him with both hands, threading his fingers deep into the other man’s hair, taking and taking and knowing he will never be satisfied even as tears well up in his eyes at how this feels. How different it is to awkward kisses he’s shared with women, how much he _wants_ instead of dreading.

He must whimper, because Basim shushes him, hands gentle on his skin.

“You will have what you want,” Basim promises.

He does not promise idly.

Sigurd gasps as Basim’s hands skim over his belly, pushing his tunic up, heat rushing down and making him groan as he swells into Basim’s eager hand, rocking up against him, throbbing with need.

Basim smirks, and ducks to nuzzle his belly, and this too is new, this is something Basim is showing him.

The heat of his tongue makes Sigurd cry out as Basim licks at him, shameless, eager, holding Sigurd’s gaze as that clever tongue curls around him. Sigurd bites down on his hand to save himself calling out loud enough to bring half the city down on them, and spreads his legs, and begs with all the pretty words he knows.

Basim smiles as though he’s never been more pleased with anything than he is with Sigurd, and Sigurd sobs again, belly tight, skin itching, urgent need pooling low as Basim takes him into his mouth with practiced ease. The practice is almost as exciting as the act itself, the _knowing_ that Basim has done this many times.

His back arches as Basim presses an oiled finger to him, pushing in mercilessly and making stars burst in front of Sigurd’s eyes.

Sigurd begs again, begs until Basim rolls him over and shoves his knees apart and presses down on him, filling him thick and hard as the pillows creak under Sigurd’s iron grip, and _gods_. This is what he wants, what he would never have been bold enough to ask for.

Basim nuzzles his neck, and Sigurd feels him smile against it as they rock together, tongue lapping at that same mark he traced earlier, breath hot in Sigurd’s ear as he whispers secrets. About the world, and about Sigurd—how beautiful he is, how special, how he’s unlike any man Basim has ever known and how he wanted this from the moment he saw him.

Sigurd comes with the taste of Basim’s name in his mouth, and passes out.

When he is aware of himself again, he is clean, dressed, nestled in pillows and unsure it wasn’t all a dream.

Except that when he looks at Basim and sees the hunger in his eyes, he knows.


End file.
